


When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be

by itareena



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sherlock's Violin, mostly gen but slashy if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:21:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itareena/pseuds/itareena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock plays slowly, tentatively, like he did when he was a child and first realized that the instrument was transport for his mind, just like his body.</p><p>He opens his eyes to a frozen room, the sound of the clock ticking on the mantle piece marring otherwise perfect silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, all my love to lyzzle for kicking this into shape. I'm not entirely satisfied with this fic, but it would have been much worse without her help.
> 
> This is my first foray into the Sherlock fandom; be gentle? I would appreciate any feedback! :)
> 
> Title comes from a poem by John Keats of the same name. The full poem can be found at the end of the story.
> 
> The story is set roughly between Season 2 Episode 2 and 3.

It's a Wednesday evening, almost time for John's customary tea, the weather a steady drizzle outside. Sherlock lies on the sofa in his standard thinking pose, wearing his dressing gown and not much else. John's been reading in his chair for a little over half an hour; Sherlock knows he'll get up to use the loo in a few minutes and then head into the kitchen for tea. Sherlock has no experiments running at the moment, nor any interesting personal clients to query.  
  
When John heads for the loo, Sherlock sits up and reaches under the couch for his violin. After he comes back out and heads to the kitchen, Sherlock has already rosined his bow and moved to stand in front of the rapidly darkening window. There are two lamps lit in the living room, enough for Sherlock to see his reflection in the glass staring back at him. He isn't looking out that particular window when he raises his bow and begins to play.  
  
He's seven and in Mother's parlour, sitting dutifully on the window seat and staring out across the grounds as she patiently explains that _no, it isn't proper to speak your observations about Father's friends out loud, especially if Lord McHenry really is sleeping with the butler, and we_ certainly _don't mention that to Lady McHenry!_  
  
He's eight and his father is shouting at him about how _it isn't normal to always know the things you know_ and how Father _deals in government secrets at work, why in the world would I care about the neighbor who's embezzling the company fortune into a secret account for his lover?_  
  
He's nine and it's painfully quiet in the formal dining room, staring across at his brother whose eyes are boring into him, telling him things like _don't say anything out loud or you'll upset Mummy_ and _yes, I know Father's having an affair, of course Mummy knows._  
  
As Sherlock plays the violin, faintly aware of John settling quietly back in his arm chair, tea cooling on the table in front of him, it strikes him that many of the memories he has of his childhood deal with love affairs gone wrong.  
  
Sherlock isn't afraid of his relationship with John going wrong. They would have to be in one, first.  
  
And though theirs isn't a love affair on the verge of splitting, their friendship is in danger of dying an equal death. Sherlock can feel Moriarty looming ahead, a storm on the horizon, much worse than the one splashing at the windows--one with life-threatening consequences.  
  
Slowing his bow, Sherlock transitions from a slightly frantic, catch-me-if-you-can melody to a slower, more melancholy one. Achingly, he drags the bow across the strings, pouring all the things he can't bring himself to say out loud into his music: his worry that his next case will be his last, that Moriarty will show his hand and bring his career to an end, or, the unthinkable--that John will leave, in one way or another. His bow almost skips across the strings in agitation before smoothing back out, a low and mellow note emerging instead.  
  
Perhaps his worries are unfounded. Perhaps Moriarty will reveal himself and Sherlock will beat his newest twisted little game of cat and mouse before anything too disastrous can happen. After all, Mycroft would take it as a personal affront if Moriarty bested him on own grounds. A hopeful note issues from the violin; Sherlock wrestles the music back into a more neutral tone.  
  
Not to mention John. John, who would never leave off again if Sherlock attempted to keep him out of a case, especially against someone as dangerous as Moriarty. Sherlock would never hear the end of it, really. John could probably invent a new way to nag him about it in his sleep. Or several ways. Sherlock almost quirks a smile and the violin draws a few stuttered notes as if chuckling in agreement.  
  
On the other hand, if Moriarty managed to get his hands on John, _again_... Sherlock shudders and the violin emits a few squeaks in sympathy. _A world without John_. Sherlock closes his eyes and sees 221B around him, but empty. Oh, there are his things, his equipment, the furniture, but the apartment is still empty. The lonely image echoes in Sherlock's head and this time, the violin echoes his sentiments - _sentiments!_ \- with long and mournful notes, deep and creeping from his soul. Sherlock plays slowly, tentatively, like he did when he was a child and first realized that the instrument was transport for his mind, just like his body.  
  
Sherlock opens his eyes to a frozen room, the sound of the clock ticking on the mantle piece marring otherwise perfect silence. John sits forward in his armchair, elbows on his knees and his clasped hands in front of his mouth. He stares at Sherlock with an absence of emotion, his face completely blank. Finally, he blinks and lowers his hands, still clasped. He clears his throat and says in a low voice,"That was... good." Sherlock's mouth threatens to quirk again.  
  
John clears his throat again and shifts in the chair, hands coming up to rest on the arms. "At the end, it was... it sounded like weeping. Like y- someone was crying. Inconsolably." He shrugs, shifting again, an expression on his face that is a mix of uncomfortable and understanding.  
  
Sherlock says nothing. It's neither a confirmation nor a denial.  
  
John sighs and stands, picking up his tea and heading to the kitchen to make a new cup. His first is stone cold.  
  
Sherlock turns back to the window. It's now completely dark outside, rain still endlessly pouring. He raises his violin to his shoulder, bow poised.  
  
When Moriarty does eventually come, Sherlock will be ready.

**Author's Note:**

> When I have fears that I may cease to be  
> Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,  
> Before high piled books, in charactry,  
> Hold like rich garners the full-ripen'd grain;  
> When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,  
> Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,  
> And think that I may never live to trace  
> Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;  
> And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,  
> That I shall never look upon thee more,  
> Never have relish in the faery power  
> Of unreflecting love; -- then on the shore  
> Of the wide world I stand alone, and think  
> Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.
> 
> John Keats


End file.
